She Burns That She May Live
by Vengeance on a Dark Horse
Summary: A trail of clues in a rare homicide leads a detective to an esteemed university, where a reluctant agent of an anonymous organization has been assigned to penetrate and contain the increasingly radical rituals of a sophisticated Secret Society dedicated to the annual Purge. Soon both detective and agent find themselves surrounded by the most powerful members of the New Society.
1. The Envelope

She Burns That She May Live

"But what I do I do because I like to do." –_A Clockwork Orange_

Chapter One:

The Envelope

The man was born with a great blessing kissed upon each apple cheek. His was a face so round and plump and naturally rouged that any passerby would have assumed him ten, perhaps even fifteen, years younger than he actually was even with his glasses. Happily, that morning the slight pinch of the New England cold brought a numbing pink to his nose so that his whole face looked like a cherub's in a Renaissance painting.

As a woman walked out, she held the door open to the unassumingly grey, rectangular building, marked over the entryway with the names of various banks and businesses. Folding his umbrella, he gave a whip of his wrist and shook off the fat droplets that had accumulated from the early morning mists. With a fling of his brown plaid scarf over a shoulder of his coat, he plodded his feet into the reception office and saw the old lady hunched behind her desk with a phone at her ear.

"Address please," she drawled into the phone, pushing up her glasses as they slid down her narrow arch of a nose.

There were a few lingering in the waiting room with magazines in their hands. He tossed an observational glance their way but carried on, walking up to the desk.

"Was that last one a four?" said the lady to the phone.

The man placed both hands on the desk and thumped his fingers across the edge.

"Excuse me," he said in a subdued voice. The old woman leered stiffly at the screen of her computer with the phone clinging to her ear as she slowly pressed at the keyboard filling out the blanks on a form.

"Excuse me," he ventured again with a tap of his fingers, "Um, I was told to pick up—"

"Now is it express or overnight shipping you were wanting— or ground?" she said loudly through the phone, without even a glance to the man looming over her. Yet, soon after, she raised her long-nailed fingers and wafted a hand his way. She swiveled round in her chair, turning to the filing cabinet behind her. Opening a drawer to a series of manila envelopes, she swiveled back around.

"Name?" she said, eyes on the computer. The man stared at the ceiling, tapping his fingers on the desk and readjusting his thickset glasses.

"_Sir_," the lady hissed, tapping her nails with him. He started, looking up to see the old woman's sour face and one brow arching high on her forehead.

"The name?"

"M-" he hesitated, "Morgan Lewis."

She shook her head, "No, the company's name? Who left it?"

"Oh, um, Berklay, Fischer, & Co – it should be from a Mr. Reza."

The lady swiveled back around and filed through the folders with the tips of her fingernails. She pulled out a manila envelope wrapped in a fat rubber band and handed it to the man.

"Have a good day, Mr. Lewis," she said as he nodded her way while making his exit. As he stepped outside, the clouds had shifted and a thin beam of light broke through, shining down on the parking lot. He squinted and looked at the yellow light as it bounced across the clouds.

There was a vibration, rattling against his belt, and picked up the phone at his side.

"This is Lewis," he answered, "Yes. I have it with me now…One moment let me get a pen."

A phone in one hand, an envelope in the other – he placed the phone back on his belt and reached into the collared shirt beneath his dark suit jacket. Yet as he reached, he felt a sudden punch in his chest and a sudden compression on his lungs, squeezing and not letting go. Stepping back, he blinked in a confused flurry, pulling his hand out of his suit jacket.

He saw the pen, he saw it fall onto the pavement with a light clink, as red droplets sprinkled onto the concrete, washing away with the rain.

The man fell onto his back as the compression began to suffocate him. Wheezing for breath he could see a blurry shadow approach him, a stark black contrast with the beam of light breaking through the clouds behind.

With a slight tug, the shadow pulled away the manila envelope from the dying man's hand and disappeared into the dark blur of the rain.

The man could hear a faint sound as he lulled into a sleep.

"Hello? Hello?" a voice shouted worriedly, "Lewis?"

The phone was still on.


	2. Mr Clopp

She Burns That She May Live

"_Sometimes I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is a method in his madness."  
― _Agatha Christie,_ The Mysterious Affair at Styles _

Chapter Two:

Mr. Clopp

"Did you see the news?" said Johnny, but the old man paid no attention.

There was a sweet scent of cherry blossoms as a light breeze rustled through the spring-kissed leaves of the trees and into the green. With a deep breath, the hoary-haired old man sniffed in the fresh air and assessed the field. It was not quite nine o'clock in the morning, and the golf course was all but abandoned except for the slow-moving sight of a lawnmower driving across a distant knoll.

The old man squinted through his aviator glasses, scowling at the wind as if he could see its every twirl down the course. Adjusting the salmon sweater tied over his shoulders, the old man turned to his caddy, a pock-faced adolescent with an uncomfortable squirm to his stature.

"You see that wind?" the old man said in a growl, and the boy gave an enthusiastic nod, jostling the clubs in the bag around his shoulder. The old man's frown steepened, and the boy gave a sheepish duck of his head.

"Sorry," he peeped.

The old man tore his scowl from the boy without expression and turned to the mid-aged gentleman standing no more than an arm's length away. Using the Journal's Monday newspaper (it was Wednesday), Johnny shielded his balding head from the rays of the morning sun. He folded his other arm across his chest, wrinkling the checkered cream and beige of his suit.

"Johnny," the old man said to him, "The wind is trying to fool me! You see!"

The old man pointed his driver at a distant pole. A small orange flag whipped in the wind.

"East!" shouted the old man, brandishing his club, "East, it says! But I know better! You see? You see that wind?"

He whipped his club around and pointed at the trees behind them and then along the contours of the slopes.

"Ha!" the old man grunted out conclusively, as though with that single laugh the genius of his unrevealed plan should have struck his onlookers with awe. Then, in a sudden movement, he snuggled his golf shoes into the grass and prepared his swing.

_Thunk!_

The little white ball flew into the air, high and far, but as a gust came through, all the men together began to lean left with the arc of the ball's flight. The ball landed in the sand in the east.

Johnny cleared his throat, loosening the glossy brown tie around his neck and flinging it nonchalantly over his shoulder.

"East, huh?" he said, smiling, the teasing twinkle in his dark eyes dulled behind his glasses.

The old man's back tensed, and he turned squarely around at Johnny without the least expression.

"Are you done?" said Johnny, "Did you see the news?"

"You almost had it, sir," the pock-marked teenager ventured with an optimistic lift of his brows.

A fury seized the old man's face, and he swung up his club like a drawn sword. The boy instantly ducked and scrambled off behind a hill.

"There…" said the old man, "_Now _I'm done."

With a roll of his eyes, Johnny walked over and handed the old man the newspaper. Opening it up, the old man squinted.

"This is Monday's," he remarked.

Johnny nodded, "Yes, yes, but what's the headline?"

Squinting a little more, the old man read aloud, "_Murder…_"

Johnny nodded again.

"And guess who's investigating?"

The old man puckered a lip, and then realizing, he bucked up his chin with a tilt in his head.

"Not possible! Look!" the old man swatted at the paper, "This was in Connecticut – this is entirely out of your jurisdiction!"

"Not according to the Amy Wrangler Bill – or Law, I should say now, since it's passed."

The old man shook his head vehemently until the sweater around his neck loosened and fell to the ground.

"What's that got to do with anything?" he grumbled, looking to the green after his sweater. As he stooped over, using his club as a balance, he cast a glare at Johnny.

"Amy Wrangler just covers _in-state _jurisdiction swaps," he said as he bent over further. He reached out toward his sweater, and his bony hand, thin-skinned and veiny, shook with a slight tremor.

"You're right," said Johnny, "Amy Wrangler has nothing to do with me, but it has everything to do with you."

The old man stood up, sweater in hand, and his narrowed eyes pierced into Johnny.

"You know they don't have anywhere near the capabilities they'd need to solve this in their home jurisdiction," Johnny wagged his head, "and with the news involved, it _has _to be solved. So, well, I've a friend who mentioned it all to me –"

"Ha!" the old man grunted, "You've got friends everywhere, don't you?"

A silence passed between the two, and as Johnny lowered his eyes, scratching at his neck, he gave a quick lick of his lips.

"I took the liberty of recommending you…" he mumbled meekly.

"Recommending me?" the old man said through a chuckle, throwing up a hand, "I couldn't help if I wanted to, John! I'm retired!"

"So am I!" Johnny said, "Look, they need this all resolved quickly and quietly, and all the boys they have on homicide these days are green – shit! greener than the grass you're standing on."

Striding up to the old man, Johnny reached into his suit and pulled out a folded paper.

"Look," he said, "I didn't want it like this, but if you can't take convincing then take this instead."

The old man took the paper, and crumpling it open, he read over it.

"Jesus, you went straight to the top, huh?" he said with a shake of his head.

"They'll be reinstating you temporarily," said Johnny, "with all the benefits that come with it, don't you worry about that."

"What is it I always told you, John?" the old man said, rubbing his chin, "_Don't let your head get too big, kid_. You never did listen to me, did you?"

Johnny shook his head, "No."

"So, I guess my vacation's over then."

"I guess so," said Johnny, putting out a hand. The old man shook it.

"Welcome back, Mr. Clopp," said Johnny.

The old man rolled his eyes, wafting a hand, "Yeah, yeah...just don't ask me to shoot anybody. I'm too old for that shit."


End file.
